On holding memories, and breaking open

Take me from the end so I can see the start; there’s only one way to mend a broken heart.

There are some songs that I have worn out during my past four years as a caregiver. They’ve felt symbolic, reminding me of the security blanket my son clings to at night before he goes to sleep. The song ‘Beautiful Dawn’ by The Wailin’ Jennys is one I play often on tired mornings, recanting as a prayer – using as a framework to refocus my perspective and find hope.

The song is all about mending – binding up a broken heart. When I first listened I realized the idea of brokenness is the binding of so many recent feelings, in standing by and watching helplessly as someone loses their memories. I can’t think of a better way to capture how helpless, how feeble the feelings are than to say you feel broken, completely.

I have longed, prayed, plead at the outset for the opening line of this song – ‘take me to the end so I can see the start.’ And, let me clarify – I have not sought to be done with this, because I know the end of this path means that Mom will be gone. But I have prayed for the wisdom, peace, discernment, and understanding that comes from hindsight, wishing I could have some sense of that amid the process. My prayers have been of beseechment - for some pure transcendence, refinement, and patience. I've longed for the “I rose above it all; maintained a CAN-DO” attitude that comes out of neat and clean testimony stories.

In recent weeks, as I’ve been writing these entries and reflected on how I’ve been coping – I’ve realized that in the longing for detachment, for being able to speak of this thing in a neat way while still in the middle of it, I've adopted a distance – often closing up my heart as a mechanism for surviving the day to day. 

The past month on the road to DC for a work trip, I encountered an old friend in the rediscovery of silence. During that trip, I took a break from the quiet to listen to Marie Howe’s interview with Krista Tippett. I was struck by her observation, formed during a period of profound loss after the passing of her brother:

 But I did know that when John died, I thought, “OK, I can either just let this crack my heart open or closed.” And open, the good news about open is I turned around and there were of course the billion other people who live on this earth who have lost a person they love so much. And there they all were. And it was so great to be in their company.

I've found in my revelation that I have not always avoided quiet; it used to be an essential part of nourishment for my soul, and I craved it. But as I’ve tried to balance caregiving to Mom and to my children, and to still assert some part of myself in maintenance of my vocation, friendships, and communal life – I’ve realized that quiet has been a slow, but real, sacrifice.

The closure – the avoidance of brokenness – was folded in amid the hustle, and the coping. And I'll add here, that I actually think it's been completely - O. K. I don’t think I've been in the wrong; don’t feel this post as a confessional. Instead, I've found the process of the past couple of weeks to lead me to this strangely public request.

As we gear up for the walk, I want to continue to embrace the difficulty, of turning and facing inward. But I also want to couple this process with reigniting a longtime desire to commit more time to being a holder of memories for Mom.

And so – with that in mind, as my last request prior to this year’s walk – I’d love if friends share stories and memories of Mom. This has been a dream of mine that has been lost amid the roar of quotidian things. But I want to build a scrapbook with Mom of memories shared by her friends, alongside pictures and other quotes.

Please share them – in comments below, in a private message – in a text. Here and now, or tomorrow and in months to come.And please share them knowing that Mom is here. I am not dismissing her, or requesting these as some premature eulogy. I want to take what I can garner and share everything with her to the best of my abilities.

I am so grateful – that so much of her personality remains amid the ebbing of memory. I plan to take these memories, to bundle them and share them with her. And I am trying to commit to allowing our pain to break my heart open. Sometimes, amid the day-to-day, the self-survival requires closure – or at least the delay of grief – in order to get through.

But sometimes we just need to let things break open, to let memories flow through busy work trips, lonely evenings, songful late-summer mornings and between the footsteps as we walk on Saturday. Thanks for coming alongside us, and thanks for helping me hold tight to these memories.

(If you want to sign up to walk, or donate, click here.)